


Circuit Breaker

by PlumTea



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternative Universe - Sukeban, F/F, Gen, Gender or Sex Swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 19:11:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11927394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlumTea/pseuds/PlumTea
Summary: Someone is trying to push their way into Aoba Jousai territory, and Oikawa isn't having any of that. Luckily, she has her gang at her back, and Iwaizumi, whose loyalty to her is only matched by her skill on a motorcycle.But school's also bothering her to make plans for the future. She just can't get a break.





	Circuit Breaker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sumaru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumaru/gifts).



> [Baseball Furies Chase Theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i5NYMZUYcks) from The Warriors  
> [Roller Mobster (Hotline Miami 2)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-awWHKaAgzg) by Carpenter Brut  
> [I Blink / She's Gone](https://joshlis.bandcamp.com/track/i-blink-shes-gone) by Josh Lis
> 
> Thanks to Lou for looking this over!

Three bottles of nail polish line the counter; black, turquoise, and white. Oikawa tucks her long brown hair over her ear, and taps her finger on the counter.

The cashier looks Oikawa up and down, at how adjusted her school uniform is, from her lengthened skirt brushing her socks to the mint leather jacket over her shoulders. “Will that be all?” he asks, waiting for Oikawa to turn over the potential lipsticks stashed in her skirt.

“Yep!”

He still eyes her with caution, mirroring the stare drilling into Oikawa’s back from the manager in the corner. Oikawa shoots back a smile too charming to be anything but innocent.

The cashier looks Oikawa over again, at her carefully done makeup, and the light dusting of pink blush on her cheeks. Those delinquent girls usually don’t put in effort in looking nice anymore. They’d probably be banging on the counter for him to hurry up instead of waiting there politely.

“The total?” she asks.

“Right,” he fumbles in giving her a number. She pays in neat, folded bills, and walks out of the corner shop humming. Nobody stops her.

A few blocks away, Oikawa reaches down her shirt, and pulls out a tiny box of strawberry chocolates hidden in her bra. She tears open the plastic, and pops a few into her mouth.

* * *

Outside of busy Sendai is a more suburban area, something far more peaceful than the bustling city and the curious tourists. There’s a small garage that sees plenty of business now that the economic boom brought more cars to the suburbs and more people wanting their ride to be cooler and run smoother. In the corner of the garage lot is a shed small enough to look humble, but large enough to hold a few cars. The outside is still peeling paint and worn siding. There’s no plans to fix it anytime soon; the flashier the outside, the more people come peeking.

Inside is hardly anything like the dusty, empty venue filled with debris and tires. None of the furniture matches, and there are candlelit lamps in every corner for long overnight stays. It’s well maintained, but still lived in enough to not be a showroom. No electricity, no landlines, just a few windows let in enough light. A turquoise banner etched with the kanji for ‘control’ hangs down from the second level, dividing the main floor.

The shed is under Oikawa’s name, and not just some chest-puffing prideful claim. It’s hers, on paper. It took a lot of asking, a few winks from a pretty face, and a deposit of hard-earned cash. The original owner relented— after all, what could a young girl do with just a shed?

All the girls who fly the colors of Aoba Jousai are free to use the shed when home life reminds them of a reality that’s not theirs. Oikawa collects some funds from the girls every month and gives the garage owner enough to cover their share of taxes. All on the books, all legal. The cleaner things were, the less argument there was in case anyone decided to get tough or get greedy.

It was their little place, their escape. All theirs.

A quiet day is intermittent with gears and engine rumbles. Iwaizumi sighs, and waits a moment, one, two. “I can’t work with you like this.”

Oikawa is draped across Iwaizumi’s back, her arms folded on top of messy, unbrushed hair. “I’m offering you support!”

“I can barely move my arms when I have a human backpack on.”

Oikawa hums, ghosting her fingers across the corners of Iwaizumi’s jaw. She can feel the tension there, and knows the stern expression that matches, even if she can’t see it. The slight twitch when her fingers press against Iwaizumi’s neck feels like her own heartbeat. “You should be less grumpy when you work. You know, positive thinking goes a long way—” She shrieks when Iwaizumi smashes a wrench into her side.

“Don’t kill her yet,” Matsukawa calls out, not even looking up from her drink.

“What do you mean  _ yet _ , Mattsun?”

“Calm down, trouble in paradise,” Hanamaki retorts from Matsukawa’s side. “Iwaizumi’s almost done, after all.”

Iwaizumi replies with a grunt of affirmation, and turns her attention back to the motorcycle under repair. Oikawa wiggles closer, splaying her long skirt over the floor like a black fan. She lets her head fall onto Iwaizumi’s back, until their spines are flush against each other. The rise and fall of Iwaizumi’s back feels like floating on the ocean waves. Iwaizumi grumbles, but doesn’t ask her to move.

The summer months are warm and humid, and the shed door is perpetually cracked open to keep the air circulation going. Iwaizumi’s short hair means she never has a curtain on her neck, but fixing up machines for a wage under the table is still manual labor. Iwaizumi’s shirt is sticky from sweat, but Oikawa doesn’t mind.

A low groan from when the shed door creaks open a little further. In comes Kunimi, with that perpetual slouch of hers. She shuffles inside and plops down on one of the squeaky chairs.

Oikawa takes in how the bags under Kunimi’s eyes seem more hollow than usual. “What’s wrong?” she asks, pleasant enough to be friendly, but open enough to be a real question.

Kunimi shifts in the chair, and lets out a sigh too low to hear. She collects herself, and puts on her usual dead-eyed mask of indifference. “There’s a problem.”

At the word, all ears tune in. Even Kyoutani in her corner, blatantly ignoring everyone else, perks up. Oikawa nods, a sign to continue.

“There’s a girl I know. Her name’s Kindaichi. Nice, kind of stupid, but she works hard. She’s good. But she had a run in with a gang the other day. They roughed her up. Took her wallet and her new gym bag. She’s on the volleyball team. Wants to go pro one day, maybe.” Kunimi shrugs, as if she can’t understand the feeling. The future is as much of a vague abyss to her as it is to the rest of them.

“Okay…” Hanamaki incredulously starts, but Kumini cuts her off.

“She’s going to be a regular on the team.  _ Was _ going to be a regular on the team. The girls stomped on her hand, broke it in three places. Her  _ good _ hand. If she doesn’t recover in time for second year tryouts, there goes her dream.”

“Since when did you become a charity case?” Kyoutani growls from the corner.

Kunimi’s usual flat stare turns hard. “She’s my friend.”

Before anyone else can protest, Oikawa claps her hands. If they don't do it, nobody else will. “We’ll take a look.”

* * *

Matsukawa runs a hand through her curly hair. It’s short now, after an incident with a rival crew and a makeshift flamethrower. “It’s Sagae’s crew. A couple of the girls have noticed her hanging around cafes and karaoke bars, not doing enough to cause trouble, but close enough to be a problem. She ran with Ushijima for a while, but she’s not part of the inner circle. Haven’t heard anything about her getting arrested.”

“Kunimi doesn’t live near the Shiratorizawa border. There’s a couple kilometers of cushion.” Hanamaki rolls out a map of Miyagi, her nail tracing the invisible lines that mark their territory. “So if Kindaichi got jumped, then they had to be nearby. In our turf.”

“Sounds like we have to kick Sagae out. She thinks she can march in and we won't have a problem?”

“Well, yeah. But…” Hanamaki briefly glances at Oikawa, “you know…”

Iwaizumi’s groan is enough to answer the question. “Doesn’t matter if she’s with Shiratorizawa’s inner circle or not. If she’s part of Shiratorizawa’s anything, Ushijima has to retaliate. She wouldn’t know mercy even if it hit her in the face.”

Oikawa’s eyes narrow. She chomps on a fresh stick of gum, blows a bubble, and loudly pops it. “We can’t have any of that.”

* * *

A couple of the girls are dropouts, sick of school, sick of life. Oikawa doesn’t plan on doing that, even if walking through the concrete gates every morning makes her feel sick.

The teacher’s office is as old as the building itself, and the air inside hasn’t moved since the school was founded. Her homeroom teacher looks over her list ranking the jobs she wants in the future. It’s blank, with only her name written neatly on the top. “No ideas yet?”

“Not yet, no.” It’s all about keeping venues open. She doesn’t want to shut any doors and accidentally lock herself into a corner. The right opportunity will come along one day, whatever it is. If it doesn’t, then she’s going to have all the resources she needs to  _ make _ it happen.

“Not a company? You could do well in one. And I don’t suppose you have a fiancee yet, do you?”

“No.”

Her teacher puts down the paper with a frown. “You’ve had time to think. I know you’ve thought of something. With your grades, you could do so much better than this.”

A life of marriage or secretary work sounds fantastic. She just can’t wait to be the smiling face, waiting for orders, knowing that whatever she does or comes up with will be credited to anyone but her.

“I’ll think about it,” she replies.

“You should do it soon. Bring it back in four days. This,” Her teacher eyes Oikawa’s untied scarf with disapproval, “is no way to live.”

Iwaizumi is waiting at the end of the hall, fiddling with a yo-yo. She still hasn’t got the trick down, but she’s trying. One of the class monitors is eyeing her cut top and short skirt, mouth open and ready to say something stupid, but Oikawa’s loafers clacking down the hall pulls Iwaizumi’s attention instantly.

“Bad day?” Iwaizumi asks, already knowing.

“The worst.”

“Ramen?”

“Ramen.”

* * *

 

Oikawa first knew Iwaizumi as Hajime. Hajime was a name for boys, but the person in the button up white shirt and pulling at her long black skirt insisted she was a girl when Oikawa teased her about it. Hajime is the person that sits in the corner by the window and has a permanently sour expression on her face. She's rougher and blunter than most girls, which earns her the ire of parents and classmates alike.

She’s so much more than that.

Hajime is the girl next door, who waits by Oikawa’s front door in the mornings so they can walk to school together. She likes bugs, and can pick up beetles when the other girls shriek and back away. She’s the first to back Oikawa up when there’s a fight. She’s skilled with a camera, and even more skilled with machines. Her present is always the first in Oikawa’s hands when birthdays come and go.

When they go into middle school, and their parents frown and say that it’s not right to call her Hajime-chan anymore, Oikawa resolves to instead calls her Iwa-chan. She hates it at first, but after a while, she stops complaining. When Oikawa gets cramps so bad they leave her bedridden for a day, Iwaizumi brings her notes from class. They study together, a blanket draped over Oikawa’s shoulders to keep her warm. Iwaizumi recently chopped off her hair, and the slope of her jaw stands out against the lamplight. She’s always been pretty. Oikawa teases easily, but her mouth is stitched shut. She swallows down her thoughts, and looks firmly at her notes.

When Oikawa’s parents tell her that they’ve already planned out her life like she’s a piece of property in their name; that she’s going to be a society woman with a good education and a better husband— she finally loses it. She throws books at the wall, and overflows when Iwaizumi comes over, having seen the commotion from her window. Iwaizumi drags her out of the house and tells her that it’s going to be alright, and Oikawa believes every word. She sees the determination in Iwaizumi’s eyes, and feels the warmth of her hand.

She’s with Iwaizumi when she spots a gang of upperclassmen with skirts down to their ankles and cigarettes smoking in their hands. A boy whistles at the leader of the pack and she doesn’t even blink as she punches him clean in the face. Oikawa’s sitting at her desk, trimming the edges of event posters when the boy goes crashing into aisle of desks next to her. Iwaizumi is already hovering between her and the commotion, but she sees the boy’s open mouth, bloody with a tooth dangling loose. Oikawa looks down at the xacto knife in her hand, and wonders.

“Are you kidding,” Iwaizumi says, when Oikawa proudly shows her two identical mint green leather motorcycle jackets with leaves messily stitched on the back. “I’m not wearing that.”

“So you say.” Oikawa hums, slings the jacket around Iwaizumi’s shoulders, and pulls the two ends together.

“Don’t put this on me!”

“I’ll forgive you for any oil stains, just for today.”

Iwaizumi curses her out, calls the jacket the tackiest thing alive, but she ends up keeping it tied around her waist.

She’s not surprised when Iwaizumi joins her in founding the Aoba Jousai group.

She’s not surprised that so many other girls want to join, either.

* * *

Iwaizumi pulls the tarp off her bike; her sleek and beautiful pride and joy. She worked hard for that bike, all without dealing with the yakuza. No drug running, no rolling on her back, just day in and day out working at the garage. No job for a woman, said the people who didn’t know any better, until Iwaizumi proved them all wrong. Real, hard work, and Oikawa loves her for it.

She especially loves when Iwaizumi swings her legs over the seat, and her rebelliously short skirt rides up along her thigh. Iwaizumi jerks her chin towards the exit. “You ready? Hop on.”

“Iwa-chan, if you wanted to feel me up against you that badly, all you had to do was ask!”

Iwaizumi starts the engine.

“W-Wait! You’re not leaving me behind!” Oikawa breaks into a sprint and hops on before the bike goes roaring down the street. She fits her arms tightly around Iwaizumi’s waist and shifts to keep her skirt from sucking up the breeze.

It’s a thirty minute ride down to the place where Ushijima operates out of, and traffic is easy so far. Iwaizumi’s a fast driver, but she’s smooth on the road when Oikawa’s riding with her. If she didn’t have to plant stakes in her mind for the upcoming battle, Oikawa would close her eyes and rest her head on Iwaizumi’s back.

The fading sun makes the electric glow of the passing city bold. Blurs of light try to catch them as they zip down the open road.

“Shittykawa, don’t forget that you can’t try to stab her first thing. You’re here for a meeting, not a hit.”

“Remember Iwa-chan, just because Ushiwaka is an absolute pain in the ass doesn’t mean you can try running her over with your bike.”

They ride in silence for a moment. “Next time,” they both agree.

Shiratorizawa doesn’t operate out of the address they handed over, but it’s a neutral enough location. Iwaizumi pulls up right nearby the meeting area and pockets the key. That’s more than enough— anyone that tries to steal her bike is looking to get their teeth smashed in.

Ushijima is always tall, but her shadow is even longer with her perfect posture. If she didn’t look so hard, it would be a challenge to pin her as the leader of the Shiratorizawa crew, since her uniform is completely normal looking. No stitchwork on the back of her shirt, no studded bracelets on her wrist. The only thing setting her apart is that she’s lengthened her skirt, but she comes from such a traditionialist family that even that doesn’t seem out of place. She makes the oil drums she’s sitting on look like a throne, and Oikawa really, really wants to knock her onto the ground.

Shirabu is at her leader’s side, and looks ready to cut them just for breathing nearby Ushijima. She probably would, too.

“Oikawa. And Iwaizumi.” Ushijima inclines her head ever so slightly, enough to be polite, but not enough to be obedient.

Oikawa keeps her chin high when she walks over to Ushijima and sits on the overturned oil drums opposite her, legs splayed, arms crossed. She waits until she feels Iwaizumi at her back, and then waits some more.

Ushijima doesn’t move. It’s hard to tell she’s even breathing, if it wasn’t for the subtle shift of her shirt as she inhales.

It’s no fun, and Oikawa lets out a groan. “You’re boring, Ushiwaka-chan.”

The hint of a frown crosses Ushijima’s face. “Don’t call me that.”

“Let’s get this over with,” Iwaizumi tersely says. “You don’t want to be here, and neither do we.”

Ushijima tilts her head. “I don’t mind.”

“ _ We _ don’t want to be here.”

Oikawa can already feel a headache growing between her eyes. Business, business, they’re here for business. “There’s been purple coats in our turf. Enough that they’re not just grabbing drinks from a bar on the outskirts.” Oikawa watches Ushijima’s eyes, a hunter in the daylight. “Sagae’s crew, specifically.”

Ushijima’s eyes give nothing. “I see. She moved early.”

“For the sake of this meeting, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” The fact that Sagae went ahead before the order went out meant that she got eager. Or more likely, got greedy. “We’re taking her down.”

“Are you asking permission?”

“I don’t need your permission. I’m here to tell you, face to face. She’s going down.”

If Ushijima’s disturbed, she doesn’t show it. “And your stake in this? For fun?”

“For revenge.”

“I see,” is all Ushijima has to say.

“Wow,” Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow. “Not going to stick up for her? You’re stone cold.”

“If she flies Shiratorizawa’s colors, then she boasts Shiratorizawa’s strength,” Ushijima explains. “It’s one thing if all of Aoba Jousai attacked her, but you wouldn’t do that. Not for personal revenge.”

Oikawa narrows her eyes, but says nothing.

“It’ll be a small fight. If she can’t handle that, that’s on her.”

Oikawa hates how Ushijima speaks plainly, and she hates even more how Ushijima speaks without malice. Just stating the facts, like everything is the way it is. It feels like she’s addressing a rock, not a person. A nasty smile curls up her face. “You’ll find out soon, when Sagae comes back missing part of her face.”

“On one condition.”

“Ugh.” She should’ve known that Ushijima wouldn’t accept it so easily. “What? What is it?”

Ushijima looks at the path cutting across the junkyard; a clear shot, no obstacles. “Iwaizumi. You raced Akakura the other day.”

“Sure did. She lost, fair and square. Is there a problem?”

“Is that bike behind you the same one?”

Oikawa bristles. If a biker charges at Ushijima, she’d just cut through the tires. The only one eager to drive is Tendou, and the redhead’s not around today.

“Since when do you want to race me?” Iwaizumi’s voice carries the same suspicion.

“I have a new mechanic. I want to see how good her work is.”

“Who’s riding?”

“Goshiki. Beat her, and I’ll give you three days.” Three days only— one minute over, and Shiratorizawa would retaliate.

Ushijima might as well have said yes. “Go, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi mounts her bike, and looks for her opponent with her chin held high. Goshiki pulls over a bike, sparkling new, freshly modified. She shoots Iwaizumi a cocky grin. One of the newer members of the Shiratorizawa inner circle, spunky and eager to please.

Shirabu stands between them, and holds up a ten yen coin. She looks like she absolutely doesn’t want to be there, but everyone knows she’d sooner get run over by a truck before she disobeys Ushijima. “First to the row of barrels at the end. Go when the coin lands.”

The coin spirals up into the air, and hits the ground no lighter than a bell.

Both engines roar. Goshiki charges forward, but Iwaizumi’s already gone. She shifts forward, handles the bike both feather-light and iron-gripped, and rockets across the finish line. It’s no contest.

Oikawa gives Ushijima a fox’s smile as Iwaizumi wheels her bike back to the two leaders. Ushijima regards them both with her own quiet strength, eyes with a core of steel. “Three days.”

* * *

Evenings in the base were either loud enough to shake the tree leaves or quieter than the hollowed cars in the surrounding lot. Sometimes the girls took their chances enduring the outside world, and sometimes they’ve had enough.

There are a couple of mattresses stashed away behind the makeshift curtain. Nothing special, all thin with some worn, unneeded sheets, but it’s a nice safe haven for when the girls got run out of the house for the day. Sometimes even longer. The mattresses were free to use, but the one in the far left corner is reserved for Iwaizumi and Oikawa. Sometimes they take turns using it, but it’s a common sight to see them fitted tightly together.

Tonight, it’s just them.

Iwaizumi has one hand around Oikawa’s waist, and Oikawa’s long hair is splayed all over the pillow. All the lamps have mismatched glass, and turn the two girls into a mosaic of colors. The radio’s playing something upbeat, but neither of them are listening to the lyrics. “You just couldn’t keep your hands to yourself, could you?” Iwaizumi grumbles as Oikawa’s fingers dance behind the shell of her ear. “Nearly made me crash the bike.”

“You’re not going to crash now, are you?” Oikawa teases, leaning in closer when she feels Iwaizumi tracing the length of her spine.

Iwaizumi’s sigh is orange in the light and warm on Oikawa’s nose. Her eyes have always been pretty, and now they’re only on Oikawa. Attention has never been a problem, but being in the full scope of Iwaizumi’s gaze always whirls a haze in her mind, and she feels a knot of fire in her stomach.

Oikawa marvels at how easily Iwaizumi can always reach her, can pull her down until they’re close enough to share the same breath. Iwaizumi is long winter nights, the heat of the sun, a thousand years in a single lifetime. They’ve always been coiled around each other, one way or another.

The heat under her palms isn’t enough. She wants to feel Iwaizumi’s heartbeat in her hands, she wants to show Iwaizumi just how her blood turns into starbursts whenever they brush shoulders. She unsnaps the straps of Iwaizumi’s bra with two flicks of her thumb, and leaves a trail of pink kisses down the slope of her collarbone.

Oikawa hums, distracted when Iwaizumi runs a calloused palm across her rib, a light touch mirroring the pitter-patter of the rain outside. “When did you get so gentle?”

“Who says I can’t be gentle?” Iwaizumi grumbles, leveling Oikawa with her usual hard look.

“You expect some things from a certain brute that stinks of oil and flings her tools across the roo—“ Oikawa yelps when Iwaizumi jabs her side, hard. Before she can shout a retort, her cheeks are squished between Iwaizumi’s hands, and Iwaizumi is kissing a line across her forehead.

It’s so corny and Oikawa’s not sure if she loves or hates how it’s so hard for her to breathe. She groans, slipping out of Iwaizumi’s grip, and flopping onto her back. “I'm trying to give you a nice post-race reward, and here you are, seducing  _ me _ !”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me anyway.”

“Sure do.”

Oikawa kisses Iwaizumi politely at first, and then demandingly, as if making up for years of lost time. They’re not in their rooms at home, they don’t need to muffle the noise anymore. It’s more of a reflex that Iwaizumi’s whine comes out no louder than an exhale when Oikawa dips a hand between her legs and rubs the wet spot on her underwear.

It’s quiet enough that they can hear the hitches in their breath, and the dull squeaking of the floorboards as the mattress digs into the paneling. Iwaizumi starts to say something, but Oikawa silences any protests by kissing her lightly and easing her underwear down her thighs.

“Oikawa—” Iwaizumi mumbles, and Oikawa’s heart drums in her chest at the sight of her infinitely beautiful love.

* * *

Sagae leans against a telephone pole, thumbing through a magazine. The sun’s going down, and washing the color pages with a hint of red. Nothing interesting today. She grumbles and adjusts the white sports bag on her shoulder. The girls she sent to the corner store are taking their time.

“Nice bag,” comes a voice, light and sweet.

A chance shift of her weight keeps her ear attached to her head as a knife slices past her. Sagae makes a choked noise as she swings around, reaching for the switchblade in her pocket. Too slow, and a hand grabs her scarf and pulls her down. The two go tumbling out of the parking lot and down the slope below. In the confusion, the bag is torn off her shoulder, and lost somewhere in the grass. The stream meets them with a splash, and Sagae flails, landing a punch on her assailant’s head.

“You’ve gotten a little too brave,” Oikawa says reflectively above her. Her nails dig into Sagae’s shoulders, pressing her into the stream. “I’ve been really patient up until now, but you think I’m going to let you do whatever you want? Just because Ushiwaka lets you run free doesn’t mean I will.”

“Shut up.”

Oikawa stiffens as soon as she sees the end of the barrel. Her breath is tight in her chest, and it takes all her strength to keep her easy expression on. “You brought a piece?”

“Good thing I did. Get off me. And get back.”

There’s no contest between flesh and a bullet. Oikawa cautiously obeys, and Sagae gets up with a groan.

The seconds slow to a crawl. Oikawa holds her breath, ignoring her thundering heart. She slips razor blades between her long fingers, but that’s not going to do much at this point, not with a gun pointed at her head.

“Drop the knife.”

Oikawa slowly placed it on the ground, palming a rock as she pulls her hand back up.

“Surrender right now.”

“Oh? Not going to kill me?”

“No. Ushijima wouldn't be happy if one of us killed you. I wouldn't disrespect her like that. But,” she waves the gun towards Oikawa’s legs, “doesn't mean I can't put you in the hospital. Or shoot out your legs for good. Because that's what this would be, an accident.”

“Cliche,” Oikawa sneers. The gun is shaking a bit, and it’s not from the wind. An inexperienced hand is something she can handle.

She leaps to the side, darting out of range, and hurls the rock at Sagae’s head. Stone and bone collide with a dull thunk. The gun goes off twice, kicking up a small explosion of grass behind Oikawa. Sagae stumbles up, trying to aim, but another rock knocks into her shoulder. Kunimi is at the top of the hill, rolling another rock in her palm. The next one is a dull thud against Sagae’s left knee, sending her down into the water again.

Mint green jackets line the edge of the slope. They’re eclipsed by a shout, the rest of Sagae’s crew back from their errand. Chaos breaks out as every girl rushes towards each other, bloodlust hanging around them like a dense mist. They spill over the edge of the slope, loafers skidding on grass and concrete.

Yahaba has her favorite toy out, a rope covered in glue and rolled in ground glass shards, and brings down on a girl’s back. Hanamaki is taking on two at once, an iron pipe in her hand and a smirk on her lips. A girl in purple is dragged away by her comrades to safety, before she bleeds out by the stab wound in her gut.

With her eyes cutting through the commotion, Oikawa snatches up her knife and rushes through the battle. Sagae’s retreating, limping towards the underpass.

“Come at me!” Sagae yells back from the shadows.

Oikawa presses her feet against the uneven stones and thrusts down, launching herself towards her enemy. The razors in her hand tear three bloody gashes down Sagae’s leg. The gun wobbles, and Oikawa drives her knife into Sagae’s open arm.

The gun clatters in the water, and Oikawa kicks it far out of reach. Sagae’s quick— there’s a switchblade in her hand, and she lashes out, tearing a line down Oikawa’s skirt. In a graceful sweep, Oikawa grabs Sagae’s waistband and yanks hard, dropping her into the river. Without pausing, Oikawa plucks the knife from Sagae’s arm and punctures her left foot. The scream is barely muffled by the water.

Blow after blow meets Sagae’s face until her lips are a torn mess. Oikawa’s knuckles are red with blood, none of it hers. Her hair clings to her neck, skirt swelling in the water.

“Get out of here.” Oikawa’s voice is cold, down to her bones. “Don’t come back.”

Sagae’s grin isn’t that of someone beaten. The scuttling in the dirt is louder, closer. The crew had probably split into two, and the reinforcements surround Oikawa in a sea of purple.

If they all charge at her, she won’t make it out, but neither will all of them. Her blade’s in one hand and her razors are in the other. Her skirt whirls as she spins around, digging her heels into the ground. Oikawa’s smile is dim in the sunset, all teeth and all bitterness, daring for them to come forward.

Before they can bring death closer to her, there’s a dull crack. One of the girls crumples. The bat in Iwaizumi’s hands is a blur of brown, that sends another girl down howling as she grips her ankle. Oikawa springs to her feet as a razor glances her side. She pulls her knife from Sagae’s foot and jabs her heel into the gut of the girl who came too close. Her brain rattles when someone clubs her head, but she stays on her feet.

Eight to two, there are worse odds.

A shrill noise reaches her ears.

The unsilenced gun brought sirens.

It’s just the patrol cars so far, but the moment eyes are on the ground, they’re all done. Miyagi’s anti-gang laws have already broken up Wakunan. If they’re caught red-handed, the police will drag them into holding for questioning, and then days later they’ll say, “You girls shouldn’t have been in a gang in the first place.”

Like hell she’s letting that happen.

“Break!” Oikawa roars.

Aoba Jousai hears the order, and scatters. Sagae’s crew runs as well, with one girl lingering behind, trying to help her leader up. Iwaizumi pulls on Oikawa’s hand, once to catch her attention and twice to get her moving. The cops are out of their cars now, running down the hill.

Her mint jacket’s too obvious to the eye.

Other gangs can wear colors, but to be part of Aoba Jousai was to wear their turquoise with pride. This country is all about image, but to be part of Seijou was for life. Even so, it hurts to even think of parting with the jacket she loves so much. She folds it up tightly and tucks it under her arm as she starts to run.

Her heart pounds against her ribcage as she scrambles up the hill. All the water drowning her skirt wraps folds of black around her legs, and she nearly stumbles when she stretches her legs more than the fabric will allow. The shouts are coming closer. She’s not sure how long she can run like this, but she will damn well try.

“Get on!” Iwaizumi’s shout cuts through the madness. She’s already made it to the top, knocking the kickstand up and swinging her legs over her bike. Oikawa leaps on as the motor sparks to life, and a second later, they’re a blur down the road.

Oikawa wraps her arms around Iwaizumi’s stomach, not looking back until the sirens are muffled by the wind.

“You saved my life.”

“I’ve been doing that since day one.”

Oikawa laughs until her ribs hurt. “That’s true.”

* * *

“Should’ve taken some more out.”

Yahaba snorts as she dabs alcohol on a slice down her shoulder. “In front of the law? Try it next time, but that’s a stupid idea and you know it.”

Kyoutani snarls, and glances at Iwaizumi for affirmation. “Those countryside patrols are basically mall cops.”

“Mall cops that’ll put you in,” Iwaizumi points out. There’s a patch of ugly bruises forming across her arms, but she’s in one piece.

“Point is, we all got out.” Matsukawa grimaces as she finishes closing the line of butterfly stitches down her leg. “Mostly unharmed.”

No injuries that will need them to brush with the hospital, no fatalities, no arrests. Not too bad.

“Anyway,” Hanamaki says, “I saw Sagae get nabbed when I was running up the hill.”

“Don’t fuck with the mall cops.”

“Yeah. Ushijima’s going to be furious. Kind of sad I didn’t see her get handcuffed— agh, that hurts, where are my cigarettes?”

“Top drawer on your left. Don’t lean on your stitches, Makki.”

Hanamaki shoots off a mock salute Oikawa’s way before she goes rummaging in the nearby cabinet.

“Hang on,” Kyoutani growls. “How do we know she’s not going to roll on her back? She might not rat out her crew, but she’s probably pissed at us. All she has to do is tell the cops and they’ll come clean us up for her.”

“She won’t,” Oikawa firmly replies. “If she says anything to the law, nobody will have her back ever again. An-y-way!” She claps her hands, catching everyone’s attention. “We can’t let Shiratorizawa take advantage of the gap. Is everyone good? Let’s go out out riding!”

Hanamaki laughs, sparking her silver lighter. “Only our leader could get bashed in the head and then want to go out partying.”

“It has strategic value!” If mint jackets are seen where there once were purple, that’s a sure sign of occupation. Our territory again, move at your own risk.

“But the cops--” Yahaba starts, but Oikawa shakes her head.

“Don’t worry. After all, we weren’t there, right? If our stories are all straight, we’ll be fine. They can’t arrest us for being on a drive. Trust your leader.”

They're turquoise streaks on the road, wild and brighter than the stars.

The mattresses are all full that night, and in the morning, no one with a badge comes knocking on the shed door.

* * *

“Kindaichi, right?”

The girl in question is taller than Oikawa is, but she’s still shaking like a reed in a storm. “Um…” is all she manages to say, as she fidgets with her cast.

“That is your name, isn't it?” Iwaizumi asks in her usual stern voice.

“Yes! No!”

“Which is it?”

Kunimi rolls her eyes, already tired. “They’re not here to beat you up.”

“O-Oh.” Kindaichi looks at Kunimi, and sees how she isn’t budging. “Okay.”

“We found your bag.” Oikawa tosses it over to Kindaichi, who fumbles in trying to catch it with one good hand.

Kindaichi reads her name written in marker along the handle, blurred but still visible. “Thank you,” she says on reflex.

White and turquoise glints off Oikawa’s nails when she waves at the two underclassmen.

Kindaichi whips her head around to stare wide-eyed at her best friend. “I didn't think that anyone would-”

Kunimi shrugs. “Coincidence. You got lucky.”

“Right.” Kindaichi swallows, and resolves herself. She turns back, a proper thanks at the ready, but they're already gone.

* * *

“I’ve done my good deed for the year!”

“Didn't Matsukawa find that bag?”

“Iwa-chan, let me have my moment.”

Iwaizumi reaches out to her, extending a calloused hand with oil stains deep under her nails. She catches Oikawa around her waist, and Oikawa’s head finds her shoulder, two irresistible forces melding together again.

“That Kindaichi girl was so scared of you.”

“Don't know why, I never did anything to her.”

“It's image, like how everyone says that you’re no good in that short skirt.”

“Well then, everyone can fuck off.”

“I love it, you know.”

“You would.”

It won’t last. One day Iwaizumi is going to have to put on stockings, or pants, or something more decent. Their uniforms aren’t going to fit them forever. One day, there will be too many cuts to repair, too many holes from the fabric wearing down thin. One day, they will have to retire their mint jackets, putting them in a slip of plastic to keep them preserved as time goes by. One day, they will have to step into an indifferent future.

Oikawa tucks her arm under Iwaizumi’s, hugging her warmth close. The summer haze is still sticky on the windows, but Oikawa’s not moving for anything short of a typhoon.

“Aren't you hot like that?” Iwaizumi asks.

“The summer’s not going to melt me!” Her skirt catches on her knee, and the crumpled list of future jobs lets out a crinkle. She forgot to turn it in. More quietly, she says, “And who knows how long you're going to be by my side?”

“When have I not stuck by you?”

“I know. But one day you're going to have to get a job.”

“Don’t act like I'm unemployed.”

“And get older.”

“And you're going to be exactly the same except with wrinkles and gray hair and somehow still piss me off.”

“I'm going to be the most beautiful old woman, you'll see!”

“Guess I will,” and Iwaizumi gives her a grin that leaves her breathless.

She watches the speckles of light around Iwaizumi’s face and ignores the weight in her pocket.

They've always been around each other, one way or another, and that's not going to change.

There's nothing complicated about that.

  
  



End file.
